


Second Time Around

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no magic in this land, he told her, as the fog swirled and eddied around their feet. But in the days that follow, Belle finds that she doesn't quite believe him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Time Around

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season One. Written for LJ's tv_universe community for the prompt, 'inspired by a song'.
> 
> * * *

There was no magic in this land, Rumplestiltskin told her. They were sitting on a log after the purple fog of his new magic had drifted past them to engulf the town, and she'd only half listened, too entranced by the songs of the birds – their chirping sharper and more strident than the trills of the songbirds in Avonlea – and by the towering trees and wide open spaces of this place that was Not-The-Enchanted-Forest. Entranced by him, by expressive honey-brown eyes and smooth tanned skin in place of reptilian irises and rough, hardened scales. But she knew she had to pay attention, though it was so difficult. So she had brushed her palm against the rough bark, pressing hard enough to sting, and shivered at the wind in her hair, and cocked her head to listen closely when he explained about the curse, about Baelfire, about the savior. 

His voice breaks only when he tells her of the Queen's wicked lies about her, and she watches his fist clench around the shaft of his cane, imagines she can hear the wood crack with the pressure. He bows his head when he begs her forgiveness for driving her away, only raises his eyes to meet hers when he reassures her that his love for her transcends his desire for power. She smiles then, for she has always known it, though for a time she had let the hurt and anger fester inside her and she could not think rationally enough to accept it. 

She only realizes her hand is shaking when she lifts it to sweep aside his hair, so soft and fine now without the curls. When his lips touch her palm, she has to press her lips together to stem the sudden sob that wants to burst forth. 

There was no magic in this land, he told her, as the fog swirled and eddied around their feet. 

But in the days that follow, Belle finds that she doesn't quite believe him.

* * *

She stands beneath the shower for twenty minutes and the water never turns cold. She breathes in the steam and washes years of grime from her skin, then reaches for the bottles that line the shelf on the wall. Rumple has acquired potions that smell like mango and raspberry and tangerine and she sniffs appreciatively at each one, but she chooses a small green bottle that hints of sandalwood, of spices and dark wood and dust motes in beams of light. When she's finished rinsing her hair, she thinks she smells of home.

* * *

"Belle, darling—"

Belle turns to Rumple with a wide grin. "Is it magic? Did you make this happen?"

His hand closes gently over hers atop the light switch, and she shivers anew at the feel of his warm fingers against her skin. He squeezes her hand, then tugs her away from the wall and leads her toward a chair in the sitting room. 

"Not magic, no," he tells her. "Electricity."

She shapes the word on her tongue, foreign and inexplicable. Her hand twitches to press the switch again, to watch the strange candle-less chandelier above the table flicker on and off and on and off. But she takes the seat he offers her, suppresses the disappointment she feels when he drops her hand to clutch his cane in a two-handed grip. "But how does it work?"

"It's… complicated," he says, "involving electrons and super-conductors." When she frowns at him, he lifts a hand and waves it in the air, the motion reminding her deliciously of the Rumple of old. "There are books on the matter, if you are so inclined."

Belle looks up quickly. "Books?"

* * *

At first, the television frightens her. But once Rumple explains the concept and she realizes that the people inside the box can't actually see her, she learns quickly how to use the remote to flick from one moving story to the next. She finally settles on something called "Days of Our Lives" and spends the next hour wondering if everyone in this strange new land speaks in such ponderous tones and pauses dramatically after every sentence.

Belle decides that she much prefers her books.

* * *

"You should eat," Rumplestiltskin tells her.

He's been following her with his eyes as she traverses the room, her hand coming out to light on a delicate object on the shelf, on a small curio tucked into a cabinet. Nothing has sparked a memory yet, but he told her that he owns a shop as well, has promised that she can visit on the morrow, and she looks forward to seeing what treasures he has amassed there from their world. 

It's not until he speaks that she realizes her stomach is indeed empty, and she turns to face him. "I _am_ hungry," she admits. "There were no hardy stews or elegant teacakes in my cell, I'm afraid."

He winces and looks away, and she bites down on her traitorous tongue. She walks across the room to press a hand to his shoulder. He has foregone the high-collared leather for sleek trim fabric that hugs his slim frame but she recognizes the armour all the same, and waits until he raises his eyes to hers before she speaks. "I can make tea," she offers hopefully.

He nods and hefts himself to his feet, but when they reach the kitchen she stops short just inside the doorway. She recognizes the kettle, and there is a sink for washing up, but the rest of it is beyond her. She forces herself to swallow a dismal sigh. The kitchen was always her domain, and she'd hoped that it would be the one place in his home that wouldn't feel so odd and discombobulating. To see it rendered into something so far beyond her ken makes her stomach clench alarmingly.

But then Rumple sidles up behind her and wraps his arms lightly around her waist. It brings back memories of him creeping up behind her while she was dusting in the castle, to hover at her back and speak into her ear in ways that made her shiver. Now -- now that they are honest with each other at last – she can give in to the desire she had then; to let herself rest in his embrace, cover his hands with her own. And now he can press his lips to her skin, barely brushing them against her neck before he speaks.

"I'll teach you everything, Belle," he says. 

And she shivers, because her mind does not go to the big blocky objects that fill the room but rather to other things, things that involve lips and tongue and gentle hands, a banked fire in the grate and a soft bed. Things that are only hinted about in the books she's read, but that stir something within in her that craves his touch. Needful things. Wanton things.

She manages to nod shakily, unsure if he feels the same want singing through his veins at the proximity of their bodies. But he squeezes her waist before releasing his grip and stepping around her, and his smile is soft and genuine as he waves her toward a seat at the small kitchen table. "Until then," he says, "perhaps it's best if I do the cooking."

He broils chicken on a skillet that heats without the need of fire, and steams rice in a small container in only minutes, and brings forth sharp, hot sauces that cause her tongue to tingle. While they eat he tells her about the refrigerator and the stove and market shops that offer almost everything one could want, and she starts to think that getting a handle on this world may not be as difficult as she has feared. As long as Rumple is with her.

* * *

She sleeps in his bed. The mattress is soft beneath her and there are ample blankets for her needs. The silk nightgown he gifts her with is decadently short and she blushes the first time she puts it on, smoothes it against her thighs and feels sinful and defiantly unladylike before she finally creeps beneath the bedspread and pulls the blankets up to her chin. And though he only stretches out stiffly beside her, always atop the covers, Rumplestiltskin is there to hold her hand before she sleeps and to brush his knuckles against her cheek when she awakens from nightmares of her cold damp cell and sharply painted eyes watching her through the crack in the door. Sometimes he leans up on his elbow to kiss her, a light brush of his lips against hers, and she shivers and curls her toes and doesn't have to worry about his fear or his quest making him part from her again. He loves her, and that is the one sure thing she knows.

He told her that there was no magic in this land. But if that's not magic, she doesn't know what is.


End file.
